Remodel and Rebuild
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: Jim's impulse to do a little remodeling while Blair's at a conference goes awry. Unhappy Blair/angst.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Written originally in 2007. Archaic technology, yes?

With _The Sentine_ l, I suspect most people have wondered if Jim and Blair continued being squashed in that apartment forever. This is one attempt to slightly alleviate the situation. In two other stories, yet to be posted, I have gone a different direction in solving the problem. I like the second solution better, but I hated to ditch this story completely, so here it is, for what it's worth. Thank you all for reading it, and I hope you enjoy it.

 **Remodel and Rebuild**

By EvergreenDreamweaver

"It's dead, Jim."

The speaker's face was appropriately grave, but as he realized what he'd just said, his blue eyes began to twinkle with suppressed mirth, and his mouth twitched.

Jim Ellison snorted, immediately picking up on the joke. "That your professional opinion, Dr. McCoy?"

"Damn it, Jim, I'm a detective, not a doctor! And it's McKay – how many times do I have to tell you, it's pronounced McKay?" Laughter was bubbling now, but when Blair Sandburg looked at the potted plant in his hands, he sobered again. "Look – even I can't resuscitate this one." He held the forlorn object out for his partner's inspection.

Ellison obliged. "Looks dead, all right." He patted Blair's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chief, that's too bad. Usually you work wonders with houseplants. Why do you think it died?"

"Not enough light," Blair said positively. "My room's just too dark to grow anything but mushrooms."

"Couldn't you have moved it out here where there's more light?"

"Oh, I guess so, but I like having plants in my room, it makes it feel...I dunno, fresher or something. But they're all at death's door." Frowning down at the plant, Blair walked to the kitchen and dumped it into the trash.

"Oh, very fresh, all that dead and dying foliage." Jim, deciding he'd teased enough, sought a new topic of conversation. "You all packed and ready to go?"

"I think so, yeah. Even all the little stuff, shaving gear and all that. There's not that much. After all, what do I need for a week-long seminar on profiling? A few changes of clothes, clean underwear, paper and pens, my laptop, my phone... AND the phone charger," he added, before Jim could say it.

"Snack food, something to read other than seminar handouts..." Ellison suggested with a grin.

"Got those too," Blair admitted. "And sheets of crossword puzzles I can conceal in my seminar folder."

Jim feigned dismay. "Detective Sandburg, I am shocked and appalled. Wasting your time and the taxpayers' money like that! What is the Cascade police force coming to?"

Blair laughed. "No good, apparently. Darn, I wish you were coming along to Seattle with me, We could have fun...and I'm gonna miss you." The smile faded. "I'll spend the whole time worrying about you, you know."

"Gonna miss you too, Chief." Jim sighed, all desire to laugh suddenly gone. "But this profiling is your bailiwick, not mine. After all, you can share all the wisdom when you get home – and Simon wasn't going to approve both of us being gone. Anyway, don't worry – I'll be fine."

Blair had disappeared into his room while Jim was speaking, and now returned with a laptop computer case in one hand and a small suitcase in the other. "You'll be careful? Please be careful, Jim – I know you've got control up the wazoo now, but there's always the chance that something unexpected could happen, or you'll get exposed to some damn toxic waste or something, and with me not around—"

"I will. Don't worry," Jim repeated. "And Seattle's not that far away. You can always come home if – I mean—" _Well hell,_ _that_ _sure came out wrong!_

"Oh, that's reassuring!" Blair snapped, exasperated. "You've already got it figured out how quickly I can get back if something happens to you?"

Ellison sighed again, and placed both hands on Blair's shoulders, squeezing hard in an attempt at reassurance. "Blair, it'll be okay," he said gently. "I'll take every precaution – and I think Simon's got some half-assed notion that I ought to be desk-bound and working on files all week anyhow. Where do you suppose he got that idea?" He shook Sandburg very gently, then pulled him into a tight hug. "Behave yourself, Darwin – leave Seattle standing. And drive carefully, okay?"

"I will. I promise." Sandburg returned the hug with fervor, resting his head against Jim's shoulder. "And you promise me you'll be very careful. Especially if you're out on the street. And you behave too – I want Cascade to still be here to come home to!"

"I promise," Jim echoed. "Call when you get there – and when you can, after." He grinned. "Or when you're so bored you can't stand it."

"Soon as I get to the hotel," Sandburg vowed, and with one last sweet smile was out the loft door and hurrying down the stairs.

Ellison listened to him all the way, stretching his hearing as the distance increased. He moved to the balcony and watched Blair's car drive off down Prospect, dialing up sight until Sandburg turned a corner and was gone from view – even a Sentinel's view. Then he sighed and turned back to the suddenly-dreary apartment. _Damn_. He really _was_ going to miss him, his neo-hippie witchdoctor _ **/**_ best-cop, best-friend/ _only_ -Guide partner!

Their last conversation ran through Jim's head again, and he frowned, recalling Blair's comments that he couldn't seem to grow plants in his room. Why not? There were lots of windows in that room, weren't there? There should be plenty of light. Suddenly curious, he headed into Blair's room and took a good look.

Well, it wasn't _quite_ as crowded and messy as it had been in Blair's grad-school days, although at the moment it looked as if Sandburg had rummaged through most of his clothes while packing, and had simply tossed the discards on his bed. The multitudinous anthropological texts and magazines were gone – either packed into boxes and stored down in the basement, or taken to the recycling center. He still had shelves full of artifacts and mementos from his earlier travels, neatly arranged. The desk, where his laptop usually rested, held a stack of file folders Jim recognized from work; Blair had started bringing home cold cases to review in his spare time. Jim shook his head. _Kid's a glutton for punishment!_

He looked around with an assessing eye. There were windows, all right, and the glass-paned half door to the outside, as well as the windows and the French doors that looked into the loft, but Blair was right: for some reason the overall feeling was 'dark.' Cramped, even. No wonder the guy desired a little fresh greenery! There were plants growing in the kitchen, and on the balcony, but Sandburg wanted some in here as well, and Jim couldn't really blame him.

And then the Sentinel was hit with what he figured was pure inspiration, and he exclaimed aloud as the idea occurred. "Greenhouse windows!" Well, _one_ greenhouse window, anyway; he didn't suppose they made such things for half-doors, after all, and there was only the one window on the outside wall. He could put it in while Sandburg was in Seattle, and welcome him home with the surprise. With Simon mysteriously – _hah_! – adamant about him putting in desk time, that meant he could get home on time or even early every day, and he had the whole weekend in front of him as well. Grinning broadly, Jim wheeled around and went to find a tape measure.

#####

The rest of the afternoon was spent primarily in measuring, jotting down notes, investigating garden windows online, and a prolonged trip to a home improvement store, where it took three salespeople to satisfy Ellison's demands, meet his specifications and answer his questions. But when all was said and done, Jim drove home with the back of the pickup full of supplies and deep satisfaction in his soul.

It took numerous trips to get everything up to their apartment, and Jim was forced to sit down and rest for a few minutes after the last load was deposited outside Blair's room. He got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and gulped it gratefully, surveying his purchases with pleasure and making plans.

First, he was going to have to make room to work. Unfortunately, that meant disturbing Sandburg's things and moving them temporarily out of his room – but he'd do it as neatly as possible, and sort and pack things into boxes so that they could be put back easily when the window was done. There were boxes in the basement, and he'd only move what he absolutely had to – ugh, that window was on the wall where Blair's bed was! _Damn, that means I'll have to move a bunch of other stuff so I can move the bed! And all his clothes are all over the bed, so I'll have to hang everything up or put it away...sheesh, Sandburg, couldn't you have done that before you left?_

Well, no time like the present. As soon as he'd caught his breath he'd go down and get boxes and start in. It wasn't even five o'clock yet; he had a lot of time yet tonight. Jim slurped down the last of the water and whistling, set out for the basement storage area and the desired boxes.

#####

He had just finished bringing up several large cartons and deposited them on the floor in Blair's room, when the telephone rang. For a moment he was tempted to let the answering machine pick up – and then realized that it probably was Blair himself, calling from Seattle. He glanced at the clock as he headed for the phone, noting with some apprehension that it was much later than anticipated.

"Ellison!"

"Hey, Jim, it's me." Blair sounded both exasperated and exhausted.

"You're late calling. What happened?" Jim demanded with concern, perching on the arm of the chair.

A deep sigh came over the wire. "Accident – no, no, calm down, it wasn't me, there was an overturned semi on I-5 that spilled a load over several lanes. Closed the freeway south for over two hours while Haz-Mat cleaned everything up. And every other route was jammed because of people getting off the freeway."

"Aw, that's tough luck, Chief. Did you sit on the freeway or roam around on the back roads?"

"Sat on the freeway and listened to the police scanner," Blair replied with a soft chuckle. Already he was sounding less upset; apparently hashing it over with Jim made it a little better.

"You got there okay, though? Finally?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I grabbed a sandwich in the coffee shop and now I think I'm gonna crash early. I'm beat." He paused, then added, "Did YOU eat dinner?"

Surprised at the query, Jim realized he hadn't. "I – um, I guess I forgot," he hedged.

"JIM! Damn it, I'm gone five hours and already—"

"Stow it, Shorty, I just got involved in something and lost track of the time. I'll get something to eat, don't worry."

"Lost track of time?" Now Sandburg sounded apprehensive. "Jim, you didn't—"

"No, I didn't zone. It's okay, Chief, really."

"If you're sure..." _Blair_ didn't seem all that sure..

"It's fine. I'll go grab some dinner as soon as we're done talking, so don't fuss."

"I don't fuss."

"You do."

"What were you so involved with that you forgot about eating? Jim, don't tell me you decided to re-line the kitchen shelves!"

"For the luvva...no, I didn't decide to re-line the kitchen shelves!"

"Replace the tile grout in the bathroom?"

"Sandburg—"

"Hey, I've lived with you over four years, man; I know what you're like! You just waited for me to get out of your way so you could organize and clean to your heart's content, didn't you?"

This was hitting too close to the truth for comfort, and Ellison was glad that _he_ had the enhanced senses rather than Blair; his inquisitive roommate couldn't hear the tell-tale increase in his heart rate and grow even more suspicious.

"I'm hanging up now," he announced with dignity, "I don't have to sit here and let you abuse and insult me!"

"It wasn't necessarily an insult, you know," Blair soothed, once he stopped laughing. "But I know you're anxious to get back to it, whatever it is – I still suspect you're re-labeling the spices or something like that! So I'll let you go."

"You take care, Shorty. Sleep well."

"You too. I'll check in with you later in the week. Goodnight."

"Night, Chief."

Smiling, Ellison replaced the phone in its cradle and, true to his word, went into the kitchen to find something which would pass as dinner. He'd eat quickly and get right back to work...he had to hang up all those clothes that were spread all over Blair's bed...

#####

The next few days passed quickly for Jim, much more quickly than he'd anticipated when he'd contemplated living for a week without Blair around. He spent his allotted time at the precinct – and true to Jim's prediction, Captain Banks had him working primarily on the backlog of paperwork. The few times he was called out, he took either Megan Connor or Joel Taggart along, and had no problems with senses, strange substances, or persons worse than a white-collar criminal embezzling from his bank who tried to escape out a back door, whom Jim had to chase down and apprehend. He left work as soon as possible every day and headed for home and his building project, which was progressing to his satisfaction.

Simon Banks, expecting that Jim would be at best, lonely and at loose ends while his partner and roommate was gone, or at worst, revert to the surly, tight-lipped recluse he'd formerly been, was bewildered by the man's behavior: he was perfectly amiable and approachable, but was definitely...distracted. When Simon extended an open-ended dinner invitation, Ellison refused unequivocally, saying he was busy all week.

So Banks demanded an explanation – and Jim just grinned.

"I've got something I'm working on," he said enigmatically, "and I have to finish it before Sandburg gets home. So I'll take a rain check on the dinner, Simon – but thanks, all the same."

"Need a hand with your project?" Simon asked cagily, hoping for some clue to explain Ellison's behavior.

Another Ellison grin, complete with twinkling eyes. "Thanks, but I've got it covered, I think. If that's all, sir – I need to get going..."

Exasperated, Banks had waved him out and settled back in his desk chair, wondering what the hell was going on with his top detective.

###

Conversations with Sandburg were a little harder; Blair called during the evenings, naturally, and that interrupted Jim's work on his project. It was difficult to chat without mentioning what he was doing with the new window – and although he always enjoyed talking with Blair, it did take his attention away from whatever task he had scheduled. Blair knew something was in the wind, and attempted to pry it out of him more than once, but Jim managed to distract him with stories from the bullpen, and by asking questions about what was happening with the profiling seminar.

"All right," Blair had finally admitted defeat. "If you won't tell, you won't tell. But I'll find out when I get home, Ellison!"

Jim had laughed softly, thinking _You got that right, Chief!_

###

Now, Thursday night, he was in the final stages. Blair would be home tomorrow evening, and Jim wanted everything to be put back, neatly arranged, and shipshape before the night was out. He had the window installed, and the caulking was done and had dried overnight. _And no, we aren't_ _ever_ _going to admit to Sandburg how that liquid adhesive stung our eyes and made our hands itch, now are we, my precious?_ – nor was he ever going to admit that he quoted _Lord of the Rings'_ Gollum to himself! Now there was just touchup painting to be done, and all of Blair's things to be put in place. He could get it done by bedtime, easily. Especially if he didn't bother with dinner yet again – something which was rapidly becoming habit. _Another_ something he had no intention of ever admitting to his roommate.

###

Jim had been concentrating so hard on the job of delicately repainting the trim around the new window that his senses were barely registering at a normal level – so the first clue he had of an intruder was the sound of a key grating in the front door lock – and then Sandburg's cheerful voice calling:

"I'm ho-ooome! Surprise, surpri—"

And then the horrible, deadly silence.

Jim dropped his paintbrush and erupted from Blair's room, and his heart sank at what he beheld: Blair stood just inside the open door, laptop case in one hand and suitcase by his feet, staring with blank shock at the living room full of filled cartons and boxes – filled, unmistakably, with _his_ belongings. Jim blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

"Sandburg! What're you doing here?"

The blank, shocked eyes turned to him, stared through him. "I...thought I...lived here," Blair said, almost inaudibly. "I...guess I was...wrong." He drew in a shuddering breath. "You promised me – you swore you'd never – I trusted you!" he quavered. "This is your project you've been working on all week – kicking me out? Moving me out while my back was turned? I thought we were past all that – but it looks like I was wrong about that, too!"

"No, no, you're not wrong – I mean, you're wrong about the first part, but—"

Sandburg's voice strengthened, rising to a shout. "Oh, I don't think so! You thought you'd get it all done before I got back, didn't you? But I came ho – I came back – early, and caught you at it! You damn...you underhanded, lying, goddamn JERK!"

"Sandburg, listen to me, you're making a mista—"

"The only mistake I made was TRUSTING YOU!" With a muffled curse, Blair picked up his suitcase, whirled around and flung himself out the door. His footsteps echoed in the hallway, and then there was the sound of the stairwell door being yanked open, and footsteps on the stairs.

Jim knew instinctively that if Blair managed to get to his car and leave, everything would be lost. He didn't even bother to close the loft door as he dashed in pursuit of his partner and Guide.

"SANDBURG!" Ellison took the stairs in a series of bounds, three or four steps in each leap. He heard the second-floor door open and close and redoubled his efforts. He had to catch Blair before he got out of the building! "SANDBURG!" He knew now, with a sudden rush of shame, how Blair had felt when Jim had refused to listen to him about those oh-so-important things: Alex's presence, Brad Ventriss, the dissertation release – the list went on and on. _This has to stop!_ he vowed. _We're destroying everything!_ If necessary he'd tackle Sandburg and sit on him until he hammered the truth into his head – although that probably wouldn't make Blair very happy!

Another sound impinged, interrupting the steady _thud_ - _thud_ of those fleeing feet. A skidding, slithering sound, a gasp from Blair, and then a sort of uneven, bumpy thudding: either Sandburg had dropped his laptop and suitcase and they'd slid to the bottom of the stairs, or...

Jim flung open the last door and hurled himself down the flight of steps, coming to an abrupt halt mid-way.

Blair was slowly picking himself up at the bottom, apparently unhurt, although a little shaken. His laptop and suitcase were partway down the steps where they'd been dropped when he slipped. He looked up at the pursuing Jim, as if wondering whether or not he could still make a successful break for it, then apparently gave up, for he sank down on the bottom step and dropped his head into his hands in defeat. His broken whisper came clearly to Jim's ears: "I can't do this again...I can't go through it all again. God, what have I done to deserve this? I'm not strong enough to fight it all out again."

Jim descended the last few steps carefully, quietly. He reached to lay a hand on Blair's shoulder, and was appalled when the younger man flinched violently away. "Blair—"

"Go away, Jim. I'll be out of your way – out of here – as soon as I've caught my breath. Just...go...away."

"No." The Sentinel sat down on the step above Blair's. "You've got to hear me out. Listen, you've got it wrong. I'm not kicking you out. It – the loft – it was...it was supposed to be a...a surprise."

"You got that part right." The tone was bitter, ironic, and filled with deep loathing – whether for Jim or himself wasn't clear.

"Blair, LISTEN! This is all a misunderstanding. Please, you've got to believe me." He reached again to touch, and Blair shrugged his hand off. "This isn't like last time – do I sound like I did then, for God's sake?"

"You didn't meet me at the door with a loaded gun in my face," Blair said dully, the words muffled by his hands. "I suppose I should be thankful for small favors."

"Shit..." Jim took a deep breath and tried once more. "Please. Come back upstairs and see for yourself. I swear I'm not lying to you, Blair – when have I ever lied to you?"

There was a long silence. "When Brother Marcus wasn't killed," Blair offered at last, still not raising his head.

"I didn't lie to you then; I didn't tell you he was dead. I just let you believe it for a few minutes."

Blair shook his head slightly. "I can't..." he whispered again, sounding heartbroken. "I don't have enough left in me."

"Please, Chief." This time when Jim rested a hand gently on his partner's shoulder, it was allowed to stay. "You're one of the strongest people I know. You've got plenty of whatever it takes in you – but it's not going to be necessary this time. I swear...on...on Incacha's grave. If you'll just let me show you..."

Slowly, Blair lifted his head and turned, and Jim was struck to the innermost parts of his being by the desolation and despair in his gaze.

"Blair – trust me."

Blair just stared at him with those glazed, anguished eyes.

"Trust me? Please?" Jim kept one hand on his Guide's shoulder and extended the other hand, palm up.

Blair exhaled a long, tired sigh and reluctantly laid his hand against Jim's. Jim gently closed his fingers over it, and stood, drawing Blair up with him. They moved up a few steps and Jim shifted his grip to his partner's arm, allowing Blair to pick up the laptop and suitcase. Jim, keeping a firm hold on Sandburg's arm, pulled them down the stairs and through the exit door into the lobby.

"What...?" Blair hung back a little, looking back at the stairs.

"Chief, neither one of us is in any shape to climb three flights of steps right now," Ellison informed him, and steered him towards the elevator.

Neither of the two men spoke as the elevator ascended. Blair stared at the floor, clutching his suitcase and laptop tightly. Jim gripped his arm as if he was afraid that Blair would somehow escape if he let go for even an instant.

When they reached the door to the loft, Blair was obviously becoming more and more agitated. His steps dragged, his breath was coming unevenly, and the Sentinel could hear his elevated heartbeat. For a moment Jim was confused; what was upsetting Blair? Then he realized what the sight of those packed boxes must do, how they affected his partner.

"Hold on a minute, Chief." Ellison tugged him to a stop just outside the threshold. "Set down your stuff, then close your eyes," he instructed.

"What?"

"Set down the cases just inside the door, and shut your eyes," Jim repeated calmly. "I won't let you bump into anything. Go on, close 'em, and keep them closed until I say you can open them."

Blair slowly complied, not without a few distrustful looks.

Jim stepped behind him and placed both hands on his partner's shoulders. He could feel Blair trembling beneath his palms. "It's okay, Chief; I promise," he soothed. "Just walk forward." He steered Blair into the apartment, carefully maneuvering them around the obstacles, murmuring encouragement as they walked. He halted Blair at the French doors. "Take two more steps."

Sandburg obeyed silently.

"Now open your eyes." Jim squeezed his shoulders tightly and waited, holding his breath.

Blair did so and stared at his room, blinking in bewilderment at the changes. His desk had been shoved against the dresser, the bed was pushed where the desk had been, and covered with a sheet. Drop cloths were spread on the floor, and a can of paint stood open, with a small paintbrush nearby. And the window where his bed had been...ah, the _window_! Glass, glass and more glass, extending outward where before there had been only a small aperture. Shelves, wide enough to hold numerous plants or other things – small screened areas that could be opened for ventilation – tiny-slatted miniblinds set just inside the casing, which could be dropped if Blair wanted it darker to sleep. When the furniture was back in place, he could lie in bed and look _up_ – _UP_ into the sky, could see the nighttime stars, almost like a tiny version of the loft's skylight windows.

"Oh...my...Oh." Blair drew in a quivering breath.

"I wanted it to be all done before you got back," Jim said softly, turning his tight grip on his roommate's shoulders into a gentle kneading. "It was supposed to be a surprise for you, Chief – that's all."

"I...don't know...what to say." Blair bowed his head. "I never...I'm so sorry for what I...and it's...amazing...It's beautiful!"

"I didn't realize what you might think if you saw the boxes," Jim berated himself. "I just – didn't think. I was so sure I'd be finished before you got home, and have everything put back! I never meant you to be hurt, Chief."

"I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that," Blair admitted shakily. "I didn't realize how close to the surface all that still was...I thought I'd put it all behind me." He moved forward, sliding from under Jim's hands to look at the garden window more closely. "It's incredible," he gulped, blinking hard. "How can I ever thank you? I can't believe you did something like this...for me."

Jim stooped to set the paint can's lid in place, and picked up the paintbrush, laying it across the top of the can. "Can't think of anybody else I'd rather do it for," he murmured. "C'mon," he urged, a little more loudly, "I'll finish this later. I think maybe we need to sit down and have a little talk."

Blair turned from his inspection, but hesitated as Jim beckoned him towards the doors. It was apparent that he wasn't eager to re-enter the living room with its filled cartons and stacked boxes.

"It'll be okay," Ellison took his arm again in a reassuring grip. "Did you have dinner?" he asked, catching a telltale grumble from the region of Blair's stomach.

"No...I just drove straight from Seattle."

"Neither have I." Jim drew the younger man to the dining table and seated him with his back to the living room. "I think we'd both be better for something to eat."

"Maybe," Blair murmured doubtfully. He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his doubled fists, resolutely staring at the tabletop.

Jim set about finding something which could quickly become a meal, and discovered that his week-long habit of not eating dinner meant there weren't any leftovers to warm up, and truthfully, not much at all in the fridge. Hoping Blair didn't notice his dilemma, he pulled out bread and peanut butter, and began to concoct sandwiches – peanut butter and honey for himself; peanut butter and pickle for his roommate – and set a can of soup on to heat, turning the gas flame up as high as he dared, for speed's sake.

"Chief, why are you back from Seattle already, anyhow?" he asked after setting down the plates of sandwiches and bowls of soup. "The seminar wasn't supposed to end until tomorrow."

"The presenter for the last day's session contracted laryngitis," Blair explained, speaking for the first time since he had seated himself at the table. He took a bite of his sandwich and smiled – another first since arriving at the loft. "He distributed a bunch of printouts of his talk and told us we were excused. I didn't feel it was necessary to stay for the wrap-up session tomorrow, and I wanted to get...home." Ducking his head, he spooned up soup, then began hastily speaking again. "This is good – but man, you look like you've lost weight! Haven't you been eating all the time I was gone?"

 _Don't try to switch the subject, Chief_ , Jim thought with amusement. _You aren't gonna get away with it!_ "I've been eating during the day," he replied aloud, "but I usually was too busy once I got home. I wanted to get finished." He smiled ruefully. "I guess I ought to have let Simon help after all."

"Simon knew about this?" Blair glanced up, almost shyly.

"No, not exactly – I wouldn't let him in on the secret. He knew something was going on, just not what." Jim sighed. "Blair, I _really_ didn't intend for this to go down like it did!"

"I know." Blair sounded as guilty as Jim felt. "If I'd called—" he started, just as Jim said "I should've told you about—" They both laughed self-consciously.

"We wanted to surprise each other, and we got more of a surprise than we expected," Blair reasoned. "It wasn't anyone's fault, exactly..." He bit off a large mouthful of peanut-butter-and-pickle and chewed with evident enjoyment. "Mmmm! I haven't had one of these in ages!"

Jim just smiled a little and munched his own sandwich. Another time he might have made an acid comment about his roommate's questionable taste in food, but nor tonight. They were both too on edge – and Blair still too emotionally fragile – for much teasing.

"I wanted to finish the painting tonight," he ventured, when the food was gone, "and I'm afraid you aren't going to be able to sleep in your room, Chief – even if we got the bed uncovered, it would smell too much of paint in there!"

"I can use the couch," Blair began, although something in his quickly-averted eyes told Jim that sleeping among his boxed possessions wasn't high on his partner's wish list.

"You don't have to do that. You can sleep in my bed; I'll sack out on the couch."

"And then try to work tomorrow after no sleep, or a few hours' sleep on a too-short, too-narrow couch? C'mon, man, I can sleep there better than you."

"You won't sleep well either, and you need the rest. Are you going in to work too? If you're not in Seattle at the seminar..." Jim let the comment trail off, inviting a reply.

"I suppose I could; I hadn't really thought it through yet. I technically have the day off, since everyone thinks I'm still there." Sandburg considered the idea with care.

"Or..." Jim offered another option, "we don't have to tell anyone you're back, and you could...um...put things back, tomorrow. How you want them, I mean. I might not have gotten them right if I did it." An almost-imperceptible head tilt indicated the overflowing boxes.

"I think you probably would have done okay," Blair murmured. He shoved away his empty plate. "Uh – could you use a hand with anything in there?"

Jim pushed back his soup bowl. "That might be nice. If you wouldn't mind."

"I think I'd like to help."

Together they cleared up the few dishes, and set the kettle on to simmer, for later cups of tea. Both of them were on guarded best behavior: Jim was being careful not to do anything that might make Blair feel unwelcome or upset; Blair was embarrassed by his previous assumption and actions, and attempting to hide it with cautious geniality and gratitude. Each was being attentive and solicitous of the other. An odd air of dislocation and displacement filled the loft apartment, emphasized by the stacks of boxes.

Once in Blair's bedroom, it was better. There were things for them to do: Jim resumed painting the trim work around the new window; Blair began picking up tools and equipment and putting them away, then switched to unearthing his shrouded bed and rearranging items on shelves which would be newly spacious once he moved the sickly plants into the new garden window.

The painting was finished by eight o'clock. Jim tamped the lid on the paint can and gathered up cans, brushes and sheets of plastic. Blair stood quietly admiring the final result.

"Like it?" Jim, returning from the basement storage room, which the paint cans called home, paused behind him.

"It's awesome, man. I can't wait to start putting stuff on it!"

"Tomorrow you can; it ought to be dry by then," Ellison predicted. He placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. "It's still early; feel like watching some TV?" Too late, he realized that those damned boxes would be there, in plain sight. _Ellison, you friggin' idiot!_

Blair shook his head, filling Jim with disappointment, but his words alleviated the worry. "Nah – not yet. First I really want to take a shower and get unpacked. Then yeah, maybe."

"Okay." Jim hoped his relief wasn't terribly apparent. This walking on eggshells around Sandburg – and Sandburg doing an equally intricate dance around him – was wearing. More than anything he wanted things to get back to normal. He wondered how long it would take. Hours? Days? As Blair disappeared into the bathroom, he squared his shoulders decisively. He had maybe 15 minutes to get as many of the packed cartons as possible back into Sandburg's room, where at least they would be out of sight!

#####

"You sure you don't mind sleeping here?" Jim surveyed his partner with deep concern in his eyes. "Really, Chief, you can have my room—"

"Jim." Blair stopped him with upraised hands, palms out, his usual 'hushing' gesture. "I will be fine. Since you moved most of the stuff back into my room, it doesn't bother me anymore. It's okay – understand?"

Ellison grinned a little, a combination of relief and embarrassment. "I hear that," he quoted wryly. But his smile dimmed as he gazed uncertainly at Blair. "Chief...I know my little remodeling project turned out all right – so far as the actual building goes. And your plants can grow now, and flourish in the sunlight. But...some things...kinda got damaged...broken...in the process." Blair nodded soberly, understanding his meaning. "Can we rebuild...us?"

Blair's lips curved in a tender smile. Without hesitation he crossed the intervening space between them and tucked himself against Jim's shoulder. Jim automatically wrapped his arms about Blair in response, and they stood there together, as they had just before Blair's departure for Seattle, Ellison's cheek resting against the top of his Guide's head.

Blair slid his arms about Jim's waist and hugged him tightly, then lifted his face from where it was buried in the taller man's shoulder, His smile widened from whimsically tender to one glowing with certainty.

"We already have."

The End


End file.
